Escaping
by docdylanriley
Summary: Post-Reichenbach/Sherlock and Watson/Rated M for future chapters. Notice: All chapters up to the 6th have been edited and updated.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

John fell to the ground, kneeling over Sherlock as he lay on the ground. The crowd gathered, pulling John from the body of his partner. _He can't be dead, he just can't_, John thought. Sherlock had done what John never expected: he actually jumped... John could not imagine a world without Sherlock. He had grown so close to the other man that he could not compose his thoughts. Before he knew it, John blacked out.

John woke up to screaming lights above him. He lay in a stretcher, secured with leather straps, those only used for violent patients. A brunette nurse walked in warily, walking towards the now-docile man with precaution.

"Are you done?" She said, her voice an unordinary high-pitched squeak.

"What are you talking about?" John replied, dazed and confused.

"Fighting. Earlier, you were thrashing about. Yelling." She had calmed down considerably at his lack of recognition.

"I don't recall... Why am I here?"

"Your boyfriend," her eyes widened, she replied with that same shaky voice she used before. "He is gone."

"He's not my b- Who? Gone?" For a moment, all he heard was the comment about their relationship, he was used to that. He needed the familiarity of the common mistake. Unfortunately, his mind heard the other part of what she said. He paused as his eyes started glazing over, "Oh my god."

"I am terribly sorry. We don't know what happened to him." The nurse was clearly ready for John to begin screaming like he had before.

"What do you mean? You don't know what happened to him?" John started yelling; the nurse slowly backed into the corner. "How do you not know?" John was sobbing now.

"Well, we- we went into his room, and he had disappeared. But he was dead. The police are trying to find out what happened."

"Lestrade."

"What? Sir, I don-"

"Please, just find him."

"Er- ok. I will." She rushed out. John would have felt worse about terrifying the young brunette but he hadn't the capacity.

Time passed and all John could do was watch the clock as it struck noon, 1, 2. He fell asleep with his eyes plastered to it, waiting for someone to come and explain.

"Sir," The nurse shook him with a finger, "Sir, I found that man you wanted." She pulled Lestrade by his arm into the hospital room.

"John, I'm sorry. I don't know what you could be going through." Lestrade tried to find the correct words for the situation; there were no correct words.

"What happened to him? The nurse said that he has gone. That means he is still alive. I know it."

"John, he isn't. I was in the room when he died. I know it is hard to deal with, but he is dead."

"Then where is his body? I want to see the body if he is dead. Until then, He is not dead. Why else would his body disappear? This is Sherlock that we are talking about."

"Yes, but even Sherlock cannot escape death."

John's eyes shifted down at his hands and he was quiet. He could not accept it; he refused the facts.

"No." John whispered so quietly Lestrade struggled to understand.

"Well, I don't know what to say, but I have to go and find... it." Lestrade was obviously referring to Sherlock's lifeless body, but he didn't want to upset John more than he already had.

"Goodbye."

As soon as the door shut, John let his tears flow; they did for two hours. The only peace John found was in his sleep.

His vision was blurry, his body felt sore, and he was completely confused as to where he was. He saw the outline of a table in the next room. As his vision cleared, he gasped. He felt his eyes burn, but not with sadness. He felt his pained body tense, and his thoughts wander. He could not move or speak.

"John, it's Molly. John." She shook him, but he was utterly speechless and never took his eyes off what lay on the table.

She shook him a harsh final time, and received the response she had been wanting, his eyes snapped up to meet hers.

"M- Molly," John stuttered.

"Yes, John."

"He- He- Why?" John's voice heightened to a whispering squeak.

"He spoke to me before. He asked me if I would still want to help him if he wasn't who he said he was. I said anything. This is what he wanted."

"But what? What is this? Is he-?"

"No, John. He is not." She replied.

He took a deep breath as he resisted the tears threatening to escape.

"Why did he lie to me?"

"He hasn't woken up yet. The drugs healing him have taken a toll, he has been sleeping since I took him out of the hospital. You are going to have to organize your relationship and address those problems yourself."

"Just tell me how?"

"Ask him yourself."

"How did I get here?"

"Mycroft." She retorted with a smile.

"So I am the last to know? He was my best friend!"

"You were in the hospital!" John was taken aback; Molly defended herself well. She wasn't the nervous schoolgirl when Sherlock was incapacitated.

"He will wake up soon. I got you here so you were the first one he saw. You are the only one he cares to see." Molly continued as the corners of John's mouth curled up just enough for Molly to notice. "Do you want something to eat?"

"No, thanks. I'll stay here." John was whispering again. Molly left him to wait by his partner's side. "Oh, and Molly?"

"Yes, John?"

"How do you know he wants to see me?" John knew the answer, but in light of the events of the day, he needed to hear it. He needed the feelings Sherlock and he silently shared confirmed.

"He says your name, often in fact. Sometimes he yells for you, but other times he only whispers." Molly's eyes lowered as she thought of Sherlock's affections toward John. She loved him but she also understood him, and understanding Sherlock meant pain.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

John's eyelids flew open; he gasped for breath.

"John? What happened?" He heard footsteps coming towards him.

"M- Molly? Oh, yes." John paused as he thought of the contents of his dreams. "I see him jump every time."

Molly shuffled awkwardly, her eyes moving to the floor. "You have been asleep for three days." She decided not to mention the fact that he spoke in his sleep, or rather spoke Sherlock's name.

"That is fitting. I haven't slept more than an hour in the past week. 'T is good," John paused, his eyes filled with sorrow- and something else Molly couldn't put her finger on. "I can't believe this happened. In his last moments, he said that he was a fake, and that he made it all up. He lied, I know it, but there was something else. I don't understand." John sputtered the words as he felt his eyes squeeze closed and his hand come up to rub his forehead. Molly walked to his side and placed her hand over his shoulder.

"None of us understand."

Her attempt at consoling him was useless; he only placed his hand over Sherlock's and squeezed his sleeve in a fist. Molly looked over with a quizzical brow, wondering if John missed Sherlock more than she understood.

Although his eyes remained closed, Sherlock's eyes rolled around in his head so violently John's eyes flew to him and Sherlock took hold of John's hand and let out a throaty groan.

"Hold still, Sherlock," Molly said firmly, "Don't move or you will mess it up!"

"What?" John was filled with loud noises he could barely contain. His eyes were wide and his voice shaky. "Is he better? What will he mess up? Has this happened before while I was sleeping?" John's medical degree practically flew out the window when he saw Sherlock thrashing about on the makeshift hospital bed.

"No. This hasn't happened before. He should be waking up, but I've patched him up so extensively that I don't want him ruining my handiwork and ripping anything. He has such bad bruising, John."

"He will be ok." John stated with a new found conviction but Molly could still hear how the tender words were lined in worry.

"Yes. He will be ok."

Sherlock's eyes flew open. His breath hoarse and his hand gripping to John's, he spat out the words, " I- I- I nee- I need water."

Molly gasped, something about Sherlock waking changed her from what John had seen: a strong woman who did her job well, and back into that nervous, seemingly smaller girl. She ran into the other room and struggled to get water into a small cup. _Were her hands shaking_? John thought with confusion. He knew she cared for Sherlock, but he thought she was over the nervous girl phase. Something about her broke when he was around, or conscious. He cut through her confidence like it was butter. Just as he thought, she scampered back to Sherlock and gave the cup to John. She was too nervous to give him water. John thought it too pathetic. She was stronger than this, but he gladly took the cup from her unsteady hands.

John placed his hand gently behind Sherlock's head, his face seemed contorted with pain. John held in a gasp as he saw that Sherlock showed even more pain when he was pulled up into a less reclined position. Molly was chewing her fingernails like a hungry chipmunk. _I shouldn't be this nervous. I was in the fucking profession! I am used to people crying out in pain and dead bodies. I should be able to handle myself with a recovering friend! _He knew deep down why he couldn't handle himself with Sherlock in pain. He pushed the feeling deep down. He couldn't handle that, not now.

He slowly poured the cool water into Sherlock's dry mouth. His lips were glistening as the water ran over them. John couldn't stop looking at them. Once the cup was empty, Sherlock sighed with relief and sunk back down into the makeshift stretcher. Looking up at John, he whispered, "Hello John."

John had to hold back from letting his eyes glaze over, all of the sudden, a fierce anger took him over and he began yelling, "Why Sherlock? That was bloody awful of you! And on top of that, lying! You lie to me, and then jump off the side of a fucking bloody building." John had no filter now; he couldn't stop his anger. "You liar." His voice broke at that moment and he fell back into his chair. John lifted a hand up to his eyes and began breathing in and out in time with a patting foot.

"Yes. I lied." Sherlock said matter-of-factly, as if he had not jumped to his death only days before. "I lied but the truth will come very soon. Now let me sleep. The wounds I have sustained have hardly left me my life." Sherlock shut his eyes and John looked up to see his lips moving with great speeds of silent words and his eyes moving much under his eyelids. This kept on for several minutes, John watched silently until they finally slowed to a halt.

"I am going out for a bit. Need to get more food, yeah? Of course." Molly feigned happy ignorance and left. She knew more about the men across the room than they knew themselves.

Once the door closed, John began to cry. He was alone, and he couldn't hold the great stress he had been holding in for days. John looked up at Sherlock, sleeping on the makeshift stretcher; he gently grasped his hand, and fell asleep.

Sherlock awoke several hours later to the feeling of something on top of him. His vision was blurry. He saw a blob of green on his lap, that blob of green cleared up to be John, holding his hand, with his upper body resting over Sherlock's lower while sitting in the chair pulled up close. Sherlock drew back the smile as soon as it escaped his muscles. He quickly observed the 3 bags of groceries and didn't need to deduce that Molly dropped them there. She must have been startled by the way she had walked in on the strangely romantic position the men were in. Judging from the crinkled bottom of the paper bags he _did_ however deduce that she had more dropped them than placed them down in a hurry to leave immediately. Sherlock laughed inwardly and looked back at John. _Strange that he does this. I don't understand. Does he have feeling for me? He shouldn't. That woman he has been seeing. He has been dressing so nice lately. For her, it must be. How could he have feelings for her if he had feelings for me? He wouldn't be looking so nice lately if it weren't for her. _This was the first problem Sherlock couldn't figure. He laid back and receded to his mind palace, trying to understand the most complicated problem he had faced. Feelings.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sherlock:

_The groceries are gone. She must have gotten up this morning and moved them. After all, John has receded to his chair again. _Sherlock thought, gazing towards John. _Why should I care?_ Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

John:

_I was laying on him. Laying on him! How… How terrible… terribly obvious as well. Damn my feelings and I. He probably knows I was in that position; he _had _laced his fingers through mine, probably absently in his sleep. I would have to be a fool to think he did that. Sherlock doesn't even think that way of me… of anyone. _John thought, gazing towards Sherlock. _He looks beautiful sleeping._ John closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

Sherlock:

_I cannot let him know that I am up. I cannot look at him again; he is probably going to wake soon. I cannot face him. I don't know why. I cannot deduce anything about him other than the normal things, the boring things I already know. He really does look nice today. Just keep your eyes closed, Sherlock. Don't make the situation awkward. _

John:

_Wow, he is probably going to wake up soon. I hope he didn't see me staring. I just cannot stop thinking about him. Wow, this is a problem. But he is so brilliant. He probably has me figured out. I don't even have _myself_ figured out yet. He seems to figure everything out. Yes, he knows. John, _you _don't even know. Stop thinking these things. You aren't gay. You never have been. Why would it start now? I mean, there was that thing in college. Maybe Sherlock had a thing in college. No. He doesn't like anyone. Ever. Not like that. _

Sherlock:

_My word, he really does look good. I cannot even go to my mind palace. He is always there. This has never happened before. Ever. I have been lying here, pretending to sleep for the past hour and a half… This is ridiculous. He hasn't even woken yet. He always wakes before me. Is that only to go to the grocer? Maybe he is sleeping in. That should be it. I cannot deduce anything when I cannot see him. Still, keep your eyes closed, Sherlock._

John:

_This is fucking ridiculous. Why am I pretending to sleep while he is? He is asleep. I always wake before him. What time does he wake? Wait; does he need his nicotine patches? Maybe I should end this stupidity and just get up. No, I will wake him. Then he will ask questions like why I was laying over him and holding his hand. Wow, Sherlock. I am actually afraid what you think. You really are an amazing human being. _

Sherlock:

_Ok. This is not like me. Or him. We both need to wake. I will just not ask any questions about earlier. I shouldn't. He will expect answers of me. Ok… I will play the child's game. This is what they do when they are nervous, right? On the count of three…_

John:

_This is stupid. I should just wake up and get him his nicotine patches. Maybe if I do it on the count of three…_

_One…_

_One…_

_Two…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

_Three…_

The men snapped their eyes open at the exact same time, each to see the other staring back.

After a lengthy pause, John broke the awkward, staring silence, "Good morning."

_Well, he sounds chipper. _"Good morning, John." Sherlock replied stoic, as if he had seen a ghost.

"Breakfast, aye?" John felt his eyes darting from Sherlock's eyes, to the floor, to his own folded hands, to the bed, and back to Sherlock's eyes.

"Yes." Sherlock, observing carefully at the direction John's eyes took, paused, "Maybe bring the computer over here."

"Uhm, sure. I'll make eggs," John stammered, he felt a twisting anxiety in his chest, "Or something."

"Oh, yes. That sounds wonderful."

John left the room, just escaping in time to hide his scarlet cheeks.

The clicking of the stove disturbed Sherlock's conscience. After a moment, feeling disturbed, Sherlock pushed one leg off of the bed. He strained, and with much effort pulled the second one down. Sherlock gasped in pain as his feet touched the ground.

"Sherlock? _Sherlock!_" John ran to Sherlock from the kitchen just in time to catch him as he fell to the ground yelling.

"_Why did you do that?" _Sherlock's words struck John like whips.

"Y- you were falling? Why did you try and get up?"

"Why do you think? I wanted to watch you cook."

"Y-"

"_See _you cooking. _What_ you were cooking." Sherlock quickly corrected himself, a heavy blush creeping up his face. _Why am I acting this way? It is far too irrational. This is quite unnecessary. It's _John.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Molly; she said you might need a wheelchair to move about for the first couple of days. I didn't even know you were going to try and get up. What about the computer?"

It was at this very moment the men became glaringly aware of the way John had caught Sherlock. His left hand was curled under right Sherlock's arm, holding his shoulder, and the other, reached around Sherlock, desperately grasping his lower back.

"I wanted that later. Not now." Sherlock tried to catch his error. John started pulling Sherlock up, back to the bed, but was interrupted, "John. What is happening?"

"What do you mean?" John didn't know if he meant with his injuries, his feelings, his _hands_ or, well, with the world.

"What is happening? You have been acting erratically. Your eyes dart to an average of five locations every time we make eye contact. This is a sign of discomfort. What is discomforting you about me? This has never happened before."

John's eyes again darted to about five places. _Damn it. I need to stop doing that. I keep on doing that. He needs to stop being so… To hell with that idea, he is Sherlock. He can't stop. _

"I don't know, Sherlock." John quickly stammered out before hurrying to pull Sherlock up. He looked all over the room for the wheelchair but he couldn't find it. No need. Suddenly, Molly walked in. Before she was two steps inside the room John stopped her. "Molly- wheelchair- where?" His awkward tension and blushing was becoming terribly obvious as he started feeling very exposed.

"Corner. Kitchen. It is folded." Molly muttered shyly. She really was terrified when Sherlock was awake.

"Er- Ok." John lowered Sherlock to the floor, only to excite a loud yell out of the injured man.

"Dammit, John." Sherlock growled, wincing. Molly ran over and tried to hold Sherlock up, only to hear more groaning. John looked up, surprised that Sherlock actually stayed silent. _That face… _

"Just get the damn wheelchair." Sherlock was getting furious. _This is uncomfortable. Damn Molly. She won't get the chair. The fact that I even need a chair is ridiculous. John is holding me in an… interesting way… Do I like this? His hand is rather close to my-_

"Got it!" Molly tried to smile, but after the looks the two men gave her when she plopped the chair down, she knew they wanted her gone. She scurried away, tail tucked between her legs.

John lifted Sherlock up and put him in the wheelchair.

"Why?" John stayed kneeling in front of Sherlock's wheelchair.

"Why what, John?"

"Did you," John paused, he fought out the words but they put up a fight, "jump."

"John, things happened. Moriarty, he got his way."

"How did he get his way, Sherlock? Did he make you jump? Tell me he is at least dead."

"You understand this. You must. It is so simple. The trial, the false identity." Sherlock, for the first time, seemed to be at a loss for words. "You must understand."

"I don't."

"He was going to…"

"What?"

"Kill you." Sherlock felt a burning in his chest, one he had never felt before. He felt the need to hide his singular interest in John, but he didn't continue.

John's eyes went wide. He didn't think it was out of the question, but for Sherlock to risk his life… for John?

"He got his way, John." Sherlock continued, staring at the ground. For a second, John thought he saw his eyes glaze, but Sherlock blinked it away before it was even a possibility. "Why didn't you believe me?"

"I know you." John stared at Sherlock, his eyes burning holes in Sherlock's head.

"But how did you know?" Sherlock's face would have been perfectly stoic, but was given away by eyes glazed over and a tear forming at the corner of his eye.

John replied, not covering up his emotion nearly as well as Sherlock, "How could I not know?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Finally, this stupid food. I have never actually seen you eat, Sherlock. This will be a unique experience." John moseyed to the table where Sherlock was perched in his wheelchair waiting.

"Digesting slows me down, but nothing can slow you down more than a bloody wheelchair, so I have no reason not to be even more slow. Must be like this for you all the time." John paused, smiling at the first friendly insult since the accident. _Why do I feel so happy? I should be bloody angry for that comment. _"That's a little… rough."

"You don't care." _Why doesn't he care? This is ridiculous. Observe his breathing. He usually exhibits a heated and angered response. This time he continues to be relaxed, even a smile. He may not care about me anymore. Maybe he doesn't want to be around my mind and it's responses any longer. I have probably exhausted him of his leniency. _

"Why do you say that?" John replied. _Of course I don't care. I l-. _John would not let that thought cross his mind. He was a soldier, an army man. They had spent so much time trying to convince the world of their friendship, or rather that their friendship was _only_ a friendship. _Ever since that damned run we made holding hands. This is ridiculous._

"John, I am not going to waste your time. If you are exhausted of me, you may leave whenever you wish. You do not have to stay and take care of me. I assume that I have exhausted you of your leniency after the incident." _Bloody hell. I hope he doesn't say yes. _Sherlock's eyes widened at this surprise of his own feelings. He never needed anyone before, yet here he was, hoping John would pledge his love for Sherlock on this very _dirty_ floor. _Truly strange; when Jim Moriarty left me his number, I had not known it was Moriarty, and yet I still did not want anything to do with him. I have, in fact, never wanted permanent companionship._

"That is absolutely not the way I feel. You have exhausted me, but I will not leave you. I care about you." John immediately became flushed and flustered, Sherlock, at the same time, observed this without fail. In reaction, he too became confused, not only at John, but at the feeling of his heart beating faster and faster. _My body betrays me yet again, just as John's has. He truly cares about me. He has refrained from moving for such a time that I can actually _see_ his pulse, accelerated. He is flushed, signs of embarrassment, such that he has just revealed his true feelings, and his breathing hitched for a few moments, signaling shock and worry as to my reply. _

The seemingly innocent conversation had turned frightfully betraying of John and Sherlock's feelings, but only betrayed them to Sherlock, not to mention in a frighteningly short period of time.

"On the roof, Moriarty died as well." Sherlock stated. This was decidedly the best time to explain what had happened to John.

"Of course. I know that. They found him."

"Blaming me, of course."

"Well… yes."

"Not important." Sherlock paused. "He was a genius, you know. Absolutely fantastic. He completely ruined me. Even killed himself to do it."

John was speechless.

"Look. I need you to listen more carefully than you ever have. The Reichenbach Fall? Well, Reichenbach's translation is Richard Brook. He had a full fake identity, unfaultable to anyone other than I, and maybe you. My suicide was the finale. It was the final way of ensuring the burning of my heart." Sherlock's nose started twitching the way dog's do when they snarl. "I knew it would happen. Molly, being so devoted to my cause, said yes when I requested her help. She saved me. You didn't watch. _I told you to watch, John._" Sherlock sounded so agitated about it now. He slammed his fist on the table. For the first time in the whole explanation, Sherlock looked at John, stared at him, their stare was unbreakable. "He made me jump. Said that everyone who I cared about would die if I didn't. I tried to make him call it off, but he shot himself before I could. It was all lost. I knew I had to jump. He had three gunmen, three bullets, and you three. No way to call off the murders except to see me fall from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. So I jumped. I told you; tried to make you understand that I was ok. You didn't watch. I didn't want you to think me dead." Sherlock broke the stare and looked down at the floor.

"I was tripped. I got up as soon as I could to rush to you. I made sure. I saw you. Wait, who three? Other than me." John blushed hardly enough to see, but of course Sherlock saw it.

"Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. The children's case was the start of making it look like I was the one who set up the crimes. It is so deeply embedded, John. The whole criminal underworld thought I had the non-existent anti-security code."

"My god…" John stared at Sherlock, searching for a hint of emotion in the man's face. He found it, Sherlock's face contorted with anger until he couldn't hold it in anymore. Sherlock started crying. Crying. "Sherlock? Oh my god." John scrambled up in disbelief and devastation. He hit his shin on the chair, and his hip on the corner of the table, but eventually managed to make his way over to Sherlock's wheelchair. John didn't know what to do once he got there, but he didn't know what not to do. He wanted to hug him, kiss all of his pain away; he wanted to promise that everything would be all right, but he knew that wasn't true. Sherlock made John's decision for him and grasped at John, hugging him around his waist. John was almost surprised, but the speed at which everything was going did not allow for extended thought. John crouched down and on his knees, hugged Sherlock around his waist and laid his head against Sherlock's chest, Sherlock kept his arms around John and they stayed there. Sherlock wept, and John did as much as he could to help and hold the strongest and most brilliant man he knew as he became broken in front of him.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"What just happened, John?" Sherlock sniffled and looked down at John who was still holding him.

"I- I don't know. You-"

"Yes. I did. But why?"

"Well… Sherlock… You- Your life has been ruined."

"I can fix that." Sherlock sniffed, but adopted his look of pure calm again.

"O-ok."

"You didn't answer my question." Sherlock's expression became blank as ever and he adopted the look of pure confusion he always did when he didn't understand human feelings, even his own.

"What were you asking?"

"What happened? Why did you rush over here?"

John's face contorted in confusion, as he forgot how Sherlock didn't always understand lower-functioning humans' feelings. "You were crying."

"But why do you care so much as to come and hold me?"

John's face became blushed for what must have been the 20th time that day. "You were crying…"

"You exhibited such an affectionate response."

The conversation was embarrassing John more and more by the second. The action had seemed so right in the moment, but had he made the wrong move?

_Why did I do that? He is going to think I like him now. What if I actually do like him. I need to see what these feelings really are. Avoiding them is doing me no good. _"Well- well, yes." _What in hell am I supposed to say? I have strange feelings of affection for you that I have never felt for a bloke before? Sherlock doesn't even like _people_. _

The two men realized then that they were still embracing each other. John quickly let go upon this realization. Sherlock did not.

_Should I let go? I don't really want to let go. I don't understand why he let go, but I also don't understand why I did not let go. This is quite interesting. I am feeling sort of what people tell me that they have felt when they fancy someone. _"John, you are acting affectionate towards me, and I am doing the same to you. Now, I have never felt this way, nor have I ever understood these feelings that you have, but as my friend, I am asking you to explain them to me."

John went slack jawed and just stared. John couldn't even think, his brain went blank and he leaned forward, his face just centimeters from Sherlock's own and stayed there. "I- how can I explain them to you?"

Sherlock had never been a man for pure action. He had always thought about everything, mentally scanning through every possible option in a situation. He usually thought fast and debated each option in his mind, finding the logical one, selecting it, and putting it to use. In this moment, Sherlock did not select carefully the logical option and put it to use, even if it was a destructive or childish decision. He didn't think and he didn't analyze the situation. Sherlock, for the first time in his life, acted upon pure impulse.

Sherlock leaned forward, and without the slightest thought about how he had never done this before, kissed John. For the first time, he had kissed someone. He had never worried about whether he was gay or straight, he always thought, no, he _knew_, he was asexual. He was married to his work? Wrong. Sherlock, for the first time, felt physical attraction for another person. He had cared for John, of course. John was his friend, his first friend and his only friend. He had never felt this emotional attachment to another person, so he assumed it was only friendship. However, in this moment, physical and emotional attraction met at the same point. Sherlock didn't know that this was what normal people would label as love and lust meeting. Love wasn't putting it too far either, because even if John didn't know it, Sherlock knew that John had felt love for him too. John had waited, cried, and cared for him throughout Sherlock's death, and his survival. John cared more than he understood yet, but only Sherlock knew this. After all, even if Sherlock had acted upon impulse, once that impulse was over, and their lips were touching, he deduced everything he could about every interaction he and John had had. More importantly, he deduced everything about the kiss.

As for lust…

John was taken aback. What had just happened to him? He had never been attracted to men. All those years of dating women, men had never even crossed his mind. Sherlock was different. He hadn't realized it, but even when he was with Sarah, his mind was constantly drifting to Sherlock. The day that their flat was affected by the explosion, he hadn't ran to their flat to assess the damage, he had ran to see if Sherlock was ok. Even sometimes when he and Sarah slept together, their bodies thrusting together, he would think of Sherlock. Usually, when that happened, John ignored it; he brushed it off as being bored with having sex with her. After a while though, Sarah began to bore him, and not just sexually. Every time they were together, he would think of Sherlock. John continuously denied these feelings, even to the point that he believed the lies he told himself. He believed it when he lied to himself that thinking about Sherlock's body splayed out in front of him as he entered Sarah was only his mind tricking him, and that it was the multiple glasses of wine he had consumed causing the strange feelings. Those glasses seemed to increase in quantity the more these thoughts occurred. Nearing the end of their relationship, it seemed as though the only way he could sleep with Sarah was when he was intoxicated. Once Sherlock's lips touched his, all of the feelings he had pushed away before came shooting back to the surface. His stomach was in knots and he felt a heavy warmth spreading through his lower body. He suddenly became aware of his feelings for Sherlock. He was so painfully aware of his feelings and how they had existed so far before this point, all of the drunkenness which he had clung to when he slept with a woman, all of the feelings he shoved out of the way the day that the flat was bombed, all of the feelings he had blamed on friendship, and all of the feelings he had pushed away after he thought he lost Sherlock, and all those that hit him when he found out Sherlock was alive. He realized all of his feelings for Sherlock that he had pushed away in the time he had known Sherlock. They all came rushing back.

The two men's thoughts in that moment had slipped away only milliseconds later, falling away to reveal sheer pleasure in the kiss. Sherlock's lower lip found its way in between John's just as John's hand found its way to Sherlock's neck. John pulled himself closer to Sherlock and Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's waist. He pulled John into his lap, ignoring the pain that shot up from his legs. He didn't care, he wrapped his other arm around John's waist, and John didn't seem to mind, he sat on Sherlock's lap in the wheelchair awkwardly but without a thought. As soon as their lips broke, their eyes met each other's again. John's arms were now fully wrapped around Sherlock's neck, and the two men were clinging to each other. Their lips nearly smashed together again. They were both hungry, and had been hungry for some time now, but didn't know what for until now. Sherlock shouldn't have been so good at kissing; this was, after all, his first kiss. He seemed to catch on very quickly and even bit John's lip and licked it. John realized the request and accepted Sherlock's tongue in his mouth. Their tongues did dances, starting off slow and speeding up progressively. Sherlock broke the kiss and began kissing down John's neck. Writhing in pleasure, John's fingers intertwined through Sherlock's hair as Sherlock hungrily licked, sucked and bit his neck.

John's eyes lazily opened and before he knew it, he was completely aware of everything that was going on. Especially the fact that there was now a hard cock pressed up against his ass, and his own was painfully restricted in his pants. He looked down at the curly-brown haired man sucking on his neck. He had to restrain himself from letting out a large groan, but as Sherlock was still lost in the physical interaction, he did not restrain himself. He let out a throaty groan and moved his hand down to John's ass. Everything was going so fast, and that groan had made everything too real; John panicked. He got up faster than Sherlock could react, and stared at the man sitting in the wheelchair below him. Sherlock rolled back a few feet. "Is that what always happens when someone asks you to explain something?"

John couldn't help but begin laughing. "No, Sherlock. In fact, that _never _happens when someone asks for an explanation."

Sherlock laughed with him, but his eyes went to the floor and his cheeks went a deep red. _I've never seen him blush…_ John thought as he looked at Sherlock.

"But now _I_ am going to request an explanation." John paused; he had to ask this question carefully. "Why did you kiss me?" _So much for delicate… _

"Why did you kiss back?" Sherlock was never one to miss a beat. He donned his normal everyday expression for quick and seemingly agitated responses. _He was the one who leaned in. If he hadn't wanted me to kiss him—_

"I have never kissed a man." John sadly wasn't lying. He may have had a _thing _in college, but that didn't mean it was sweet or loving.

"I have never kissed anyone."

"Well, you have me beat there."

"Well? Isn't this supposed to be awkward or something stupidly unintelligent?"

"How about you deduce the answer to your question?"

"Ok. Well I can deduce that you liked it, judging by the state of your stretched jeans. You wanted to kiss me, by the way you leaned in, and you still want to kiss me. You also are ashamed for some reason, and are in a slight state of shock."

John's mouth hung open. _Is it really that obvious that I still want to kiss him?_

"Yes. It is." Sherlock replied to the thought he read through the crease in John's forehead. John's eyes darted to Sherlock, he would have been mad, but that bloody smile was too much. John knew it wasn't the time, they had things to discuss, but he leaned over and kissed Sherlock again. _I love the way his lips taste. So… delicious… _

Sherlock had no choice but to kiss back. John's lips were the only place his mind had no quick retorts to think of, no easy deductions. _Lips… Why haven't I tried this before? I should have kissed John ages ago._

Their lips melted together, their tongues did dances, John pulled Sherlock's lips closer by the back of his head, with his fingers locked in Sherlock's soft hair. This time, John was the first to groan. Sherlock ignored the pain that came from his still healing body as he strained to continue meeting John's lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Good morning." John's eyes darted toward Sherlock as he noticed the man had woken. He realized for the first time in days how bad the man looked. Sherlock's hair was throwing itself in all different directions; his bruises were a mix of purple, blue and yellow on the side of his face, shoulders, chest and right leg. He was dead. There was no logical explanation for how he had survived; yet he had. The only things seemingly unaffected by the disaster were Sherlock's deep silver eyes. Those eyes that always reacted to the world with a retort even when he was silent, and read every detail of a person in a matter of seconds, they were still so bold, yet there was a new deepness to them, a wise deepness. He had been from the top of the world to dead and back to become a living-dead disgrace.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock said, looking up at John.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

"Like I jumped off the roof of a hospital, but other than that, I am perfectly fine."

John's lips pursed and he looked down at the newest Sherlock-headline. The papers were still writing unintelligible and disgusting reports of how every day more and more psychologists were analyzing the dead man's pre-suicide mental status. This one had claimed the truth: that Moriarty was real and Sherlock was framed and destroyed by him. The public did not take the report seriously; they were too enveloped in the story of a man caught in his own world. One actually posed the question of where John had escaped. No one knew.

"That sounds boring."

Sherlock smirked and in reply, "Always."

There was a knock at the door, John shot up and Sherlock's eyes became thin, he analyzed the situation. _Mycroft._

"Oh, it's only Mycroft." John said, Sherlock began giggling with amusement. He was quite easily amused now that everything was so boring all the time.

John opened the door while glaring at Sherlock. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Hello, John." Mycroft entered the small basement flat. "Sherlock."

"Mycroft." Sherlock addressed the man coldly.

"I have come to see how you are doing."

"Well, you see. Now, you leave." John snapped at Mycroft.

"Yes, well, that is more for me to ask Sherlock. Sherlock, would you like me to leave?"

"Yes. But first, I want you to tell me why." Sherlock said flatly.

"Why is a very incomplete question, my dear brother." Mycroft gave a twisted smile.

"You know what I am asking, _Mycroft._" Sherlock spit out the words like they were poison.

"Yes, yes. I suppose I should not have said that."

At this point, John was close to exploding with anger. He had wanted to kill Mycroft when he first confronted him about his betrayal of trust, but after the affirmation of feelings, his own were amplified when regarding Sherlock. He hadn't even dared to think about the future.

"I had no choice, Sherlock. I did what I shouldn't have, and I apologize." Mycroft was almost grinning, as if the incident happened years ago.

Sherlock looked over to John, only to see him red with rage and practically blowing smoke through his flared nostrils. "John, calm down. _I_ am not as angry as you, and I very well should be."

"Yes, John. Relax. Let's act like adults. You aren't even this protective with your girlfriends." Mycroft had a mischievously twisting grin on his face. His comment made John flustered and blush a newfound deep red, noticeably different than his rage.

Sherlock showed no sign of intimidation; his face remained in the same stoic snarl he had worn since Mycroft entered the small dwelling, "Mycroft, why don't you go and find Lestrade, I can live with not knowing why you betrayed me."

Mycroft's eyes went wide for a moment, and Sherlock was the only person quick enough to catch the shock of what he said. Mycroft took no time regaining his stone countenance that the Holmes brothers shared. _Their faces… they look so alike when they are arguing. It is ridiculous. _John thought for a moment, just looking at the two men caught in a silent argument in front of him. _Just like old times… _Except this time, Sherlock was severely shorter than Mycroft in his wheelchair and was glaring with a severe tilt. John thought it rather amusing.

"Perhaps I will leave." Mycroft turned away to walk to the door, but stopped after one step. "I'm-."

He stopped as soon as he started and continued to the door to let himself out.

John rushed to follow him as Sherlock sat in the middle of the room, not moving. John grabbed Mycroft's arm and wretched him back to look at him.

"He doesn't mean it, you know. He is just being moody, you know how he gets."

"I know, but I also know that we have never been in this kind of situation before." Mycroft said resigned. He sighed. John could not help himself; a chuckle escaped his lips.

"This situation? Never been in this situation? Mycroft, no one has ever been in this situation. This isn't exactly the most conventional of circumstances."

"You are right, but I have never betrayed him, nor him to I." Mycroft fiddled with his cuff links as they spoke, a nervous habit he picked up during his first year in his government position. "It wasn't intentional."

"He will forgive you, but I don't know if I will." John placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder but kept his glare fixed. Mycroft grunted in accord and got into the usual black car that waited on him.

"Why did he come?" Sherlock looked up at John with cold eyes and a soft voice.

"I don't know. Hell, he told you why he came. He wanted to check on you. You fell off the roof on a _bloody hospital_, Sherlock. It's quite obvious why he wanted to check on you. Maybe you should have deduced that." John stopped himself; he was agitated already with seeing Mycroft.

"Maybe I just wanted _you_ to tell me.I didn't want to deduce. I'm tired."

_He is doing that _thing _again. Being all hurt and sensitive. I hate that. I hate that I can't be angry._

"Go to bed."

"It is only 8 in the morning."

John looked over at Sherlock with stern eyes. Sherlock turned to face him in his wheelchair as John walked over to the kitchen and took the eggs out of the fridge.

"Breakfast, Sherlock?"

"Fine."

Sherlock looked at John with a critical brow, he just noticed the deep bags under the man's eyes and the ruffle of his blonde hair. _He never used to cook. He must pity me._ Sherlock's lips curled up into a snarl as he thought of the mere prospect of pity. _He is exhausted; he shouldn't do all of this work for my benefit. _

"Sherlock, what is the matter?" John had been staring at Sherlock during his phase of mental contemplation. The places had been set at the small table, except- there was a third…

"Why three plates?"

"Molly."

"Oh, yes, the wonderful Molly. Where is she, anyway?"

"Well, considering I made a place for her, what can you deduce?"

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock snapped in retort. The two men stared at each other for a good ten seconds before falling into laughter.

"Hello." Molly had tiptoed into the kitchen, or at least that is what the men though. John had brought in the eggs and bacon only to have the men gain a quiet moment, both thinking about the previous day.

"Molly! I made special eggs, so eat up. Come now, I made a place." John hurriedly spoke, realizing she had walked in upon their mutual introspection. Molly smiled at him with a friendliness she had never possessed before. She sat across from Sherlock, next to John's place at the small table. Sherlock's eyes widened at her, for the first time sitting away from him. John walked over to the table with pride over sharing his cooking with the people he loved. It was rare that he was able to share, so for the first time, he loaded the plates on the table full of eggs with spinach, cheese, and spices. John grinned at Molly as he asked her to say "when." He looked at Sherlock with a smaller smile and a bitten lip as he asked the same of the injured man. Anger never persisted the men any more, they fell into the routine of two lovers in sad, useless denial. Sherlock looked up at John and said, "when," in the most seductive and soft tone that could come out of a human. All of the eggs dropped onto Sherlock's plate, leaving none for John. John's mouth was parted the slightest bit and he felt he couldn't move.

"Now, John; that is not how we act around company. Quite rude." Sherlock scrunched up his face in a joking scowl. John immediately snapped out of his state of shock; a countenance of irritation and anger replaced the previous lust and aching.

"Sod off." John sat down without doing anything about the mountain of eggs on Sherlock's plate.

Molly had been taken aback. Her mouth hung wide as her gaze shifted from Sherlock's playful grin to John's irately pursed lips and back again. The men's eyes shifted from each other to her slack jaw and she snapped it closed as fast as she could. _I was right. They finally figured it out. All those times I tried to make them see it, and they just now figure it out. Ridiculous. Sherlock may be brilliant, but they are both daft and stupid about each other, neither can deny that. _Molly giggled audibly at her thoughts and the two men shifted their heads to be cocked to the side, confusion clouding their previous emotions. _Oh! They think… Oh, dear. _"You do know that I don't care, don't you? I had feelings for Sherlock, I probably always will, but I knew you two would eventually get to it."

It was the men's turn to have slack jaws. John was the first to drop his head into his hands and laugh. Sherlock gazed over at John and placed his hand on the other man's shoulder. John's laughter died out and he let out a sigh. The feeling of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder had given him a calm he hadn't experienced in a long time. The stress of the accident had kept him tight and unconsciously stressed. Sherlock's touch relieved him as none else would, his fingers pressing just harder than the rest of his hand. John placed his hand on Sherlock's thigh, but not in a sexual manner. He just wanted to signal to Sherlock that what he was doing was perfect. His actions had put John at ease, not made him uncomfortable. His muscles relaxed, and his eyes closed for a second or two too long. Sherlock rubbed his back softly and although this surprised Molly, it surprised John even more. Meanwhile, Molly had been rigid, she may have given them her blessing, but she her whole body was tense and she felt in the way. She was about to get up and give the two men space before John cleared his throat and spoke up, suddenly aware of Molly's presence.

"I think I will take a portion of those eggs I dropped all over, Sherlock."

The rest of the breakfast went easily lax, the three spoke of Molly's work new boyfriend, Anthony. There was not much to speak of on the subject of John or Sherlock. Sherlock had still been known as dead to the outside world, and John was broadcast as "the universal traitor, Richard Brook's friend and protector gone Holmes' accomplice" as of the morning's paper. They reached a pause in the conversation and Molly used it to become serious.

"What are you going to do?"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock replied.

"About the situation. What are you going to do? You can't keep cooped up in here forever. You have to leave sometime. Even if you didn't, I know you would get bored." Molly had a point and both John and Sherlock's eyes dropped. They had not contemplated this yet. They were still focused on Sherlock's healing and although he had made a surprisingly quick recovery, the only things still in disrepair were the bones still healing. They needed to make a plan, but they hadn't even thought about it.

"You're right. We do, but we haven't even thought about it." John was the first to reply, Sherlock still had his head in his hands, reaching his mind palace and thinking of a plan.


End file.
